followed by all the Socialist Revolutionaries. They were jeered, booed, and whistled at by the remaining delegates.
Grigori was mortified. How could his triumph have degenerated, so quickly, into this kind of rowdyism?
But Lenin looked even more pleased.
A series of soldier-delegates spoke in favor of the Bolshevik coup, and Grigori began to brighten, but he still did not understand Lenin’s jubilation. Ilich was now scribbling something on a notepad. As speech followed speech he corrected and rewrote. Finally he handed two sheets of paper to Grigori. “This must be presented to the congress for immediate adoption,” he said.
It was a long statement, full of the usual rhetoric, but Grigori homed in on the key sentence: “The congress hereby resolves to take governmental power into its own hands.”
That was what Grigori wanted.
“For Trotsky to read out?” said Grigori.
“No, not Trotsky.” Lenin scanned the men-and one woman-on the platform. “Lunacharsky,” he said.
Grigori guessed Lenin felt Trotsky had already gained enough glory.
Grigori took the proclamation to Lunarcharsky, who made a signal to the chairman. A few minutes later Kamenev called on Lunarcharsky, who stood up and read out Lenin’s words.
Every sentence was greeted with a roar of approval.
The chairman called for a vote.
And now, at last, Grigori began to see why Lenin was happy. With the Mensheviks and the Socialist Revolutionaries out of the room, the Bolsheviks had an overwhelming majority. They could do anything they liked. There was no need for compromise.
A vote was taken. Only two delegates were against.
The Bolsheviks had the power, and now they had the legitimacy.
The chairman closed the session. It was five A.M. on Thursday, November 8. The Russian Revolution was victorious. And the Bolsheviks were in charge.
Grigori left the room behind Josef Stalin, the Georgian revolutionary, and another man. Stalin’s companion wore a leather coat and a cartridge belt, as did many of the Bolsheviks, but something about him rang an alarm bell in Grigori’s memory. When the man turned to say something to Stalin, Grigori recognized him, and a tremor of shock and horror ran through him.
It was Mikhail Pinsky.
He had joined the revolution.
Grigori was exhausted. He had not slept for two nights. There had been so much to do that he had hardly noticed the passage of days. The armored car was the most uncomfortable vehicle he had ever traveled in, but all the same he fell asleep as it drove him home. When Isaak woke him he saw that they were outside the house. He wondered how much Katerina knew of what had happened. He hoped she had not heard too much, for that would give him the pleasure of telling her about the triumph of the revolution.
He went into the house and stumbled up the stairs. There was a light under the door. “It’s me,” he said, and went into the room.
Katerina was sitting up in bed with a tiny baby in her arms.
Grigori was suffused with delight. “The baby came!” he said. “He’s beautiful.”
“It’s a girl.”
“A girl!”
“You promised you would be here,” Katerina said accusingly.
“I didn’t know!” He looked at the baby. “She has dark hair, like me. What shall we call her?”
“I sent you a message.”
Grigori recalled the guard who had told him someone was looking for him. Something about a midwife, the man had said. “Oh, my God,” Grigori said. “I was so busy… ”
“Magda was attending to another birth,” Katerina said. “I had to have Kseniya.”
Grigori was concerned. “Did you suffer?”
“Of course I suffered,” Katerina snapped.
“I’m so sorry. But listen! There’s been a revolution! A real one, this time-we’ve taken power! The Bolsheviks are forming a government.” He bent down to kiss her.
“That’s what I thought,” she said, and she turned her face away.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE – March 1918
Walter stood on the roof of a small medieval church in the village of Villefranche-sur-Oise, not far from St.- Quentin. For a while this had been a rest-and-recreation area in the German rear echelon and the French inhabitants, making the best of it, had sold omelettes and wine, when they could get any, to their conquerors. “Malheur la guerre,” they said. “Pour nous, pour vous, pour tout le monde.” “Miserable war-for us, for you, for everyone.” Small advances by the Allies had since driven the French residents away, flattened half the buildings, and brought the village closer to the front line: now it was an assembly zone.
Down below, on the narrow road through the center, German soldiers marched four abreast. They had been passing through hour after hour, thousands of them. They looked weary but happy, even though they must have known they were heading for the front line. They had been transferred here from the eastern front. France in March was an improvement on Poland in February, Walter guessed, whatever else might be in store.
The sight gladdened his heart. These men had been freed up by the armistice between Germany and Russia. In the last few days the negotiators at Brest-Litovsk had signed a peace treaty. Russia was out of the war permanently. Walter had played a part in making that happen, by giving support to Lenin and the Bolsheviks, and this was the triumphant result.
The German army in France now had 192 divisions, up from 129 this time last year, most of the increase being units switched from the eastern front. For the first time they had more men here than the Allies, who had 173 divisions, according to German intelligence. Many times in the last three and a half years, the German people had been told they were on the brink of victory. This time Walter thought it was true.
He did not share his father’s belief that the Germans were a superior type of human, but on the other hand he could see that German mastery of Europe would be no bad thing. The French had many brilliant talents-cooking, painting, fashion, wine-but they were not good at government. French officials saw themselves as some kind of aristocracy, and thought it was perfectly all right to keep citizens waiting hours. A dose of German efficiency would do them a world of good. The same went for the disorderly Italians. Eastern Europe would benefit most of all. The old Russian empire was still in the Middle Ages, with ragged peasants starving in hovels, and women flogged for adultery. Germany would bring order, justice, and modern agricultural methods. They had just started their first scheduled air service. Planes went from Vienna to Kiev and back like railway trains. There would be a network of flights all over Europe after Germany won the war. And Walter and Maud would raise their children in a peaceful and well-ordered world.
But this moment of battlefield opportunity would not last long. Americans had started to arrive in greater numbers. It had taken them almost a year to build their army, but now there were three hundred thousand American soldiers in France, and more were landing every day. Germany had to win now, conquer France and drive the Allies into the sea before the American reinforcements tipped the scales.
The imminent assault had been named the Kaiserschlacht, the Emperor’s Battle. One way or another, it would be Germany’s last offensive.
Walter had been reassigned to the battlefield. Germany needed every man to fight now, especially as so many officers had been killed. He had been given command of a Sturmbataillon-storm troopers-and had gone through a training course in the latest tactics with his men. Some were hardened veterans, others boys and old men recruited in desperation. Walter had grown to like them, in training, but he had to take care not to become too attached to
